Sport 29: Spring 2002
Night Life
Night Life
Tea under magnolia
then up a valley
to the river.
Water green and cool.
Some swim to the falls,
we stay around
moving in and out
of our depth,
climb to eat perched
on a ridge of rock.
My foot rests on ‘fuck’
painted white—hard word
to fit into a poem
but found often
elsewhere.
Bats flash at dusk,
frogs surface, bodies
pale at full stretch
against the current.
Returning—a firefly,
river-sound, the moon
three days off full
and somewhere up there
are the 88 constellations,
89 if you count the map
of the Cimetière Montparnasse
which has graves marked
like stars against
an evening sky.